THREE DOLLAR BILL
by FaerieRust
Summary: The con-artist who left Berlin at the altar is recruited to act as a mole among hostages. Can a criminal love? The answer doesn't matter. Berlin must fall.
1. THE INSANITY DEFENSE

**A CON-MAN SLEEPS** with one eye open, a con-woman sleeps with both eyes open.

Which, I admit, is a fancy way of saying "all I got for Christmas was insomnia and an indefinite residency inside an asylum".

See, the nuthouse wasn't meant to be a permanent part of my plan. It wasn't actually meant to be part of my life plan at all. Shocking, I know. But this isn't a biography and you're not an idiot. I'm a con-artist; telling the truth isn't in the job description—telling you a good story, however, is. 

/ 

I don't know why I shelled out and paid a lawyer to tell me that pleading insanity to avoid a one hundred year long prison sentence was a good idea. Regardless, the question reverberated in my head all day and all night. _Maybe I missed my true calling in life_. I thought, watching time bleed weeks into months.

For someone who was accustomed to living beyond the law, being confined in a concrete kingdom and suffocated with mental health nurses was slowly but surely killing me.

I missed my freedom like a dying man on Everest misses home while he clings to a cliff's edge and prays to a god who doesn't hear him. I missed even the boring parts. The days spent burrowed in a nondescript apartment watching and re-watching recordings of my next mark and studying them, the tedium of rehashing the same point to your dumb mark, and even the paperwork was preferable to acting clinically insane.

It was like having the same nightmare every night, except you wouldn't wake up and everything blurs into one twisted montage.

Wake up. Shower and eat goop for breakfast. Attend an aimless group therapy session. Yard time. Lunch. Stare at the security fence for hours. Dinner. Sit in silence in the common room. Get sent into your cell. Try to sleep, fail, beg the nurse for pills, fail that too, stare at your eyelids, repeat.

Didn't I have a right to die? 

/ 

"Please, stop!"

My head snapped up. I had a crudely fashioned shiv in my right hand and a deathwish in my left. Not my best work, of course. It was reinforced chicken-wire glass attached to a duct tape handle. There was no explaining my way out of this one. Shit.

I expected to see Josefina with the hook nose or Magdalena with that ever-present day-old tuna stench — or any of the other ladies who worked in the facility — but instead, I came face-to-face with a man.

My shiv went clattering onto the cold concrete. I scrambled back but smashed my back against the kitchen dumpster. The man snatched my makeshift weapon away from me. I stared up at him. He looked young-ish. Probably in his thirties. Classical features, tidy facial hair, glasses — and the impression of a bookworm from one glance alone.

Although, the speed and assuredness at which he seized the shiv betrayed a background in some sort of combat sport. None of the other nurses ever had that sort of reflex.

"Who are you?" I asked, impatient to be left alone again.

"Currently, a nurse for your ward," he said, "possibly, your ticket out of this place."

I blinked at the unassuming, gentle-looking male nurse and burst out laughing. If this was a con, it could get a three out of ten for effort. Opening my palm, I gestured for him to return my little knife. He slipped it into his pocket and clasped his hands together. His eyebrows knitted together and a cute, little frown twisted his lips.

"Possibly, a patient even more insane than I am," I snorted and thrust my outstretched hand towards him again, "give the shiv back, sweetheart."

He fished for something in his other pocket before he pulled out leaves of photographs. My jaw slackened and I stared at the evidence he brought out.

"I know you don't belong here," he said.

On top of the pile was an image of my planning corkboard. The notes, photographs, and important details I pinned were all in clear view. It was a miracle that he even found my former hideout, let alone managed to take photos of something I destroyed shortly after creating. I nodded along, stunned.

"I'm not a nurse. In fact, I'm here because I'm looking for your talent with manipulating your marks," he fanned out the rest of the photos, all of which were evidence of my sane mental state and meticulousness with planning serious fraud.

"You're bailing me out of here and hiring me?"

He nodded, leaned in, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I need someone who can convince hostages that you're one of them for eleven days. Earn their trust, encourage complying with the robbers, and discreetly sabotage their escape attempts," he said, "You'll be among over sixty captives. It could be dangerous, but you and the robbers will bring back 2.4 billion Euro."

With that much money, I could leave the country. I could start anew and put everything behind me. Maybe never spend another day dancing with crime.

"Consider it done." 

/ 

**BIENVENIDOS**

The man who smuggled me out of the nuthouse wrote on a dark green chalkboard.

Alongside a colourful group of strangers, I sat in an improvised classroom in an abandoned countryside mansion. The only information offered to us all so far was that our mastermind preferred to be called "The Professor", which was a little corny but I wasn't about to turn down the two billion Euro heist. We were a ragtag group. A melting pot of adults of different ages and backgrounds.

Three heavy-set, bearded men looked well into their forties. Two of the men were younger, bright-eyed and a little too restless for comfort. There were two other women in total, both of them pretty in the same way ocelots are. Gorgeous, dressed in either fur or silk jackets and eyes full of dangerous ideas.

There was another man sitting near the front, but I was seated at the very back and couldn't glimpse his face. Broad shoulders, a perfect fit of a suit, and oozing confidence like souffle oozes caramel.

Then, he turned. Just a fraction and I saw him. The prolific robber, the thief, the criminal who once relieved Paris's Champs-Elysees of over four hundred diamonds. The man I once left at the altar. My heartbeat stuttered and, for a second, I felt my body go cold with denial.

"Welcome. I welcome you and thank you for accepting this job offer."

The Professor fixed his glasses.

"We'll live here, far from the worldly noise. For five months. Five months spent training on how to do the job."

One of the older men raised his hand. This one wore a knitted sweater, with a checkered collar peeking out from the top of it.

"Five months? Are you crazy?" he asked.

"Look. People spend years studying for a salary, which at the end of the day, is just a shitty salary. I've been working on this plan for much longer. When it's over, you'll never have to work another day of your life. Your children wouldn't need to work either."

The older man fell silent and The Professor continued.

"You don't know each other yet, and I want it to stay like that. I don't want any names or personal questions, and of course - personal relationships," he said, "I want each of you to choose a name. Something simple. Like planets, numbers, cities."

"Okay. So I can be Mister 17 and someone can be Mister 23?" said a young guy with a chain around his neck. He laughed a little in an unreal way. Picture one person saying 'ha-ha-ha', except in the exact same note for each 'ha' and spat out like a machine gun. I swallowed my urge to scrunch up my face at the sound I'd be hearing for the next half year.

"That's a bad start," The Professor said. I mentally agreed. The last thing we need is to forget someone's obscure pseudonym in the middle of a heated shootout with the law.

"Yeah, I can hardly remember my phone number. Let alone random digits for names," the older man with the knitted sweater scoffed.

"That's why I said it."

There was some sneering from the front of the class and the sweater man sighed at the jab. Eureka. We've got a probable father and son in the team.

"How about I be Mars and he can be Uranus?" Boy-next-door with the hoodie on asked.

I rolled my eyes at the overused planetary joke. Did anyone ever laugh at this after turning, I don't know, twelve? I threw a glance at my ex-fiancé's back. If he found it amusing, he wasn't showing it. The Professor cleared his throat.

"It'll be cities. Cities." And that was that.

My name is Cairo. My would-have-been husband: Berlin. I would be infiltrating the hostages and ruining any rebellion. He would be leading the rest of the robbers while we're both locked inside a mint for eleven days. Can a criminal love? The answer doesn't matter.

Berlin must fall.


	2. SHARK IN THE SWIMMING POOL

**\- NO NAMES**

**\- NO PERSONAL QUESTIONS**

**\- NO PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS**

The Professor concluded our first lesson with an agreeable 'thank you' and the prompt erasure of the chalk notes he wrote on the board. One of the younger guys, Denver, already swivelled around to shoot the shit with Rio, our computer whizz version of Mozart.

"Class is dismissed. Feel free to explore the rest of our countryside home. Dinner will be in the dining room at six," The Professor said.

Most of my classmates rose to their feet and left the classroom. Tokyo, another criminal with robbery experience, sauntered over to Rio. Maybe I would've, too. He had the boy-next-door look in spades and I've heard of the time he compromised a Swiss mansion's security system. Looks and brains. Too bad, he was practically fresh out of teenagehood. I'm a lot of things but I'm not a cradle-snatcher. Even criminals have a code of conduct and I happen to observe it. Thank you for listening.

Berlin, the man who proposed to me a decade ago, was still in the room. I watched him fix his pricey cuff-links. An old habit for both of us. Even the way his suit rests on his shoulders screamed self-indulgence. Likely some Ermenegildo Zegna piece. I could practically hear him in my head.

Careful. My suit costs more than your house. Allow me to rub it in as much as grammatically possible.

He'd lead the assault inside the Royal Mint, which was a shame because I could see him singling me out to roll out the red carpet for him — all the while knowing that I can't deny him unless I blow my cover. None of the other robbers would step in unless they'd want their heads on the cutting board sometime soon, either.

I pushed my chair back and made my way to the door. We could have our first post-breakup chat over dinner, where there'd be a team of other criminals around as potential chaperones in case things got ugly.

"Muy buenos, Cairo."

His voice sounded the exact same as I remembered it. My professional swindler instincts kicked in before I could've said anything irreparable.

I summoned up every pleasant memory I had after pulling a vanishing act on him. I passed myself off as a non-existent duchess, fostered a cat, sold "bill" printers for thousands, pretended to be an aircraft repo woman and stole off with a private jet, anonymously donated to a charity out of guilt — I've been Spain's patron saint.

"Muy buenos, Berlin," I said, smiling and turning to face him, voice warm like apple pie.

He straightened his tie, which didn't need fixing, and leaned back against the nearest desk. The years brought on hints of salt and pepper in his usually black-brown hair. His smile lines were heavier, or maybe it seemed that way because he swapped out a trimmed beard for stubble.

Berlin's gaze raked up and down my body. He took the sight of me in like a shark eyeing squid and considering whether he was hungry enough to warrant hunting it down. Tokyo was right. He was a shark in a swimming pool. His attention lingered on the crook of my neck before flashing me one of his toothy grins.

"Why Cairo and not Ulaanbaatar?" he said, "You should wear your Mongol blood like a badge. Age has been merciful to you."

"Why Ulaanbaatar and not Mörön?" I quipped.

Berlin's dark brown eyes glinted like cognac when he snorted at the joke. He spread his arms for a hug and, for a moment, I swore I saw a flicker of vulnerability while he waited for me to either hold him or turn him down.

Turns out, I was wrong.

He pulled me close to whisper in my ear. Berlin's voice was ice water on my skin. His fingers gripped me firmly as though he needed to emphasise his point. "I haven't forgotten your entirely romantic runaway," he hissed.

"I tend to have that effect on people," I said.

"Then I'm a lucky man to have you as a model hostage."

Berlin let go of me and patted me on the shoulder as if he wasn't underhandedly threatening me two seconds ago. For the sake of two billion euros, I beamed like we were best friends and shook his hand.


	3. FINE WINE

Apparently, angels exist because I didn't run into my ex-fiancé until later that day.

It was dinner time and the gang settled around a baroque dining table. Curves and counter-curves ran like wild horses along the legs and the edges. It'd be a pricey piece to pawn, I thought, trailing an idle finger down its length while Helsinki settled down beside me. Plates were passed along and cutlery set down.

"To a successful heist!" Berlin said.

He popped a bottle of _Anna de Codorniu_ and filled The Professor's glass before offering it to anyone else who might enjoy the familiar buzz.

I watched as the alcohol made its rounds around the table. The sun was setting in the horizon and basked the entire room in an amber-gold cast. The roast duck was speared with silver forks. Mashed potatoes and caramelised onions were scooped up in silver spoons. Meanwhile, the conversation between us loosened as the liquor kicked in. If you squinted, we'd almost look like one extensive family reunion.

"Helsinki, Oslo; in the right light, you two could fit in a beer ad," Tokyo quipped, watching the Serbians down their drinks, which looked toy-sized in their hands. A conspirational smile spread across her lips, "I think Nairobi would look good with champagne."

Nairobi snorted and waved a jewelled hand in Tokyo's direction. My gaze lingered on the flamboyant but calculated way she'd flash her fingers like a fireworks show.

"Champagne? That's _so_ pretentious. I'm more of a wine lady myself."

"Oh, I disagree," I said, "you're definitely champagne material. _Way_ too obsessed with money."

Tokyo cackled and 'casually' laid her head on Rio's shoulder while Nairobi made a face of mock-offence. On my right, Helsinki slapped me hard across the shoulder, rumbling with laughter. The Professor smiled across the table but busied himself with his roast duck—and my ex-fiancé smirked.

Of course, he'd smirk in that immaculate waistcoat and tie. Oxford blue. So fucking sophisticated on a man with the emotional capacity of a brute. Berlin still had that (handsome, but headache-inducing) self-assured air about him. That whole 'I could rob you blind and you'd thank me' look; all time had done was give him a track record to back it up. After all, a sword swathed in silk is still sharp.

"Shut up, swindler! You're fruit juice trying to pass itself for cider," Nairobi said, rousing another wave of laughter from our ragtag gang. Rio perked up. His bright-eyed face glowing with the satisfaction of having a witty comment ready.

"Fruit juice is a drink of culture! Five jugs and all you'll get is diabetes," he said.

I snorted and rolled my eyes and The Professor smiled despite himself. Others began to join the 'if-you-were-a-drink-what-would-you-be' game.

"Cairo is wine," Helsinki insisted, "like Berlin. Whine and wine couple"

_Oof!_ That was close to the mark, muscleman.

I elbowed the Serbian 'in jest' and laughed at the pain that shot up my arm. I have no idea what he's made of, but if someone told me Helsinki bleeds concrete instead of blood-I'd believe them. Of course, the former-soldier didn't react at all to the pain (if he even felt any?) Maybe The Professor worked in HR in a past life. In that case: A+ hire.

"I can see it!" Tokyo exclaimed.

"What's the difference between fine wine and fine women?" Denver put on an affected Berlin impression and puffed out his chest, "Wine leaves less of a headache after getting drunk."

Then he finished it off with his insufferable machine-gun laughter. Moscow gave him a swift kick under the table, but it didn't stop our merry band of fugitives from snickering.

"Oh no, no, no. The difference is that wine doesn't try to escape from his cellar," I corrected.

The gang exploded into fits again. The Professor set down his wine glass and clutched at his stomach, gasping for air. I tingled with pride at how even Berlin had to laugh and play along with it—or expose us as exes. He was always a remarkably good actor.

Maybe, in another life, he'd steal hearts instead of diamonds. Clearing my throat, I shouted over the ruckus.

"No hard feelings, eh, Berlin?"

_Oh, who was I kidding?_

/

**AN: Short chapter but we're doing good. As usual, please favourite and/or comment if you enjoyed my work! Your support motivates me to write more **

_Cursory note that jokes these characters find funny doesn't necessarily reflect my tastes!_


	4. THE PSYCHOPATH TRAP

Helsinki, Oslo, and I crowded around a billiards table. The moon was out, the crickets were serenading her, and the room's chandelier flickered in its low light. In a team of mostly Spaniards, we were the obvious foreigners and we made a game out of it. Them because of their Serbian accents and me because of my Mongol face.

"You teach us Spanish every time we score, okay?" Helsinki ribbed, sinking a number 8 ball into one of the corner pockets. Oslo nodded his approval. I watched as he bounced the one ball off one of the stars, failing to win another point, and handed me back the cue.

"Driving a hard bargain there," I said, bouncing the white ball against another corner and ruining his earlier strategy, "I'll have to think about it."

"We be nice," Oslo offered.

Honestly, I wasn't against it as long as it wasn't too much work. I like to live life at an easy pace, you know? Then again - most of my cons were run solo or with minimal outside assistance. Teamwork has a habit of getting messy. If I had to choose people to work with, I'd rather choose brawn over brain. Being out-punched is painful, being outsmarted is downright humiliating.

Not to mention, it's a good idea to be chummy with others involved in crowd control. They'd be the metaphorical stick and I'd be the metaphorical carrot. Good cop, bad cop, whatever. A slaughterhouse by any other name still spells death for sheep.

I laid the cue stick down on the table and leaned against it. Two solid fortresses of muscle blinked back at me. Pure, violent potential. It was easy to forget about when they were busy teasing you and laying down the law via a friendly game of billiards, though.

Helsinki mimicked my pose, exaggerating the way I cupped my chin, and smiled at me. Seeing a bearded man (probably twice my weight) mimic me had me burst into laughter.

"Okay, okay. You got me. This _Mongolian_ woman will be your Spanish teacher. Just fix up my Russian and we'll call it even."

"Is a deal. You get lesson ready now," Helsinki said, satisfaction creeping into his tone.

I threw my hands up and made a show of exiting the living room. My bedroom was upstairs and I figured, hey, why not actually bring a notepad down? I'd write in Old Mongol script instead of Spanish to fuck with them but I'd still need a pen and paper.

/

Moments before I stepped into my bedroom, I overheard a conversation definitely not intended for my ears. The source of the noise? The Professor's room. The speakers? Our lovely mastermind and my lovely would-have-been husband.

"I want to know why you recruited _her_ of all people. Enlighten me."

Curious. I wasn't crossing off the possibility that he might've been questioning Tokyo's role on the team. She didn't have a great record, lacked a particular niche, and wasn't someone else's bargaining chip. But, the angry quaver in Berlin's voice hinted at deeper-set effect.

"She was the most qualified one I could trust, Andres. You know what it's like working with con-artists; they're double-edged swords by nature," The Professor said, "and this one has the least incentive to betray us."

Okay, that crosses Tokyo off the list.

"Tell me, have you ever touched her before?" Berlin said.

There was a startled pause from The Professor. Also worth noting, there was a startled and borderline-offended pause from me, too.

"Excuse me?" The Professor said.

Berlin laughed. It was a bitter sound. I imagine he shook his head, too.

"Next time you talk to her, put your fingers on her wrist and press for a pulse," he said, "You won't feel the usual _ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. _No."

There was the gentle clink of a wine glass being set down on a table. He paused for dramatic effect. The Professor and I remained silent.

"You'll feel nothing—because she's heartless," Berlin said.

Ha-ha, ouch! Straight through my allegedly empty chest cavity.

The Professor started up but failed to compose any convincing rhetoric. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. I kept my gaze trained at the end of the corridor. If there was an approaching shadow, I'd have to enter my bedroom and give up on following the rest of the conversation. Hopefully, Helsinki and Oslo would continue to play billiards without me.

Berlin's next words were cold but his tone wavered like the final flames in a bonfire. His theatrics evaporated. Anger is an accessible emotion; unlike sorrow, it's a force—but even his fury flickered. Raw hurt and betrayal simmered in the air.

"Don't tell me you're doing this as an act of mercy for me, little brother," Berlin warned.

Oh. I knew he had a little half-brother but, admittedly, I baulked at the thought of meeting - or even seeing - any of his family. We were due to meet on the day of the wedding, which I knew right from day zero of the engagement that I'd disappear before. So sorry, baby. Maybe in another life, I would've met him before today.

"I'm not," The Professor said.

No names, no personal questions, no personal relationships—but you still want your big brother to make amends with the absolute angel of a woman who broke his heart and never looked back?

At the sound of approaching footsteps, I peeled away from The Professor's bedroom door and made my way into my room. The conversation stayed on my mind for the rest of the night.

See, it's easy to fall into the psychopath trap, assume the worst of my ex, and label him one if you don't know him. It's not my job to tell the truth; it's usually the opposite. However, if I had to vouch for one thing in my life, it's that Berlin isn't a psychopath. That's bullshit.

A mansion-robber, yes. Jewel thief, yes. Bit of a prick, yes. A man bursting at the seams with narcissistic tendencies, sure.

But, Berlin believes in love—and I don't.


	5. RED BERETTA

"Remember this: Once there's a drop of blood - if there's a single victim - we'll stop being Robin Hoods and we'll simply become sons of bitches," The Professor said.

He circled around his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a red Beretta. Our mastermind twirled the weapon around his fingers before snapping it into a proper hold and pointing it at me. We made eye-contact and The Professor smiled.

"Cairo will keep this pistol on her in a hidden pocket in case the hostages discover the ruse," he said, waving the gun around to demonstrate a rattling sound, "it's a custom-built replica. Pressing a button hidden above the trigger will mimic the sound of a bullet knocking about in the chamber."

The Professor threw me the Beretta and I turned it over; it was, by all means, a disturbingly well-made fake. If he hadn't said anything about it being a glorified toy, I'd assume it was real.

"Note that the remaining firearms, regardless of whether or not they're props, will be in more conventional colours. A red beretta pointed at any of you isn't a death sentence, but it does signify that Cairo's cover is compromised."

He leaned back against the classroom desk and drew a deep breath.

"Now that we've covered the theory, let us go outside for practical exercises."

/

A row of assault rifles laid opposite a row of shooting targets. Helsinki and Oslo picked up their respective guns with practised ease. Denver scrambled to take the one beside Helsinki, probably for a live model of how to hold use weapon professionally, and I found myself left only with the AK-47 beside the one Berlin held.

"Professor," I began, "is it really necessary for me to take part in this? Wouldn't it be more convincing if I genuinely didn't know how to fire an automatic?"

This probably isn't going to work but it's better to try and fail than not try at all.

"It's a contingency plan, Cairo. It could mean the difference between a successful and a failed heist," The Professor said.

Of course.

/

My hands were shaking from the recoil every time I fired.

I knew guns kicked, everyone does, but holding one and feeling the jolt through the entire weapon was a different story. My blood was singing in my head and my ears were ringing before I even registered the sound of gunfire. The urge to toss my gun aside and head back into the villa. take a catnap, and just give up on guns grew every moment.

I was way out of my depth compared to most of them. It was so apparent. Maybe except Moscow, Nairobi, and Rio but Moscow had his son to help him while Nairobi and Rio were close to Tokyo.

Denver spat out bullets with prodigious ease. His assault rifle rattled off with a loud _FRRRRRRRRAK_ while the dummy opposite him recoiled under the pressure. Helsinki and Oslo were near-perfect soldiers. Frankly, I'm not sure if they missed any of their shots. Why'd that little prick take my rightful place by the Serbs?

I doubled down on my grip. Clutching the metal magazine and focusing on the red and white target propped on the other side of the shooting range. I squeezed the trigger—and promptly missed most of my shots.

There was a pause on my right while Berlin reloaded. He clicked another magazine into place, pulled back and released the charging handle, before getting back into place and spitting out bullets again. Even while armed with an AK-47, he had the dignity and grace of a baron on a leisurely hunting trip.

My attention must've lingered for a moment too long because he looked straight back at me and stopped firing. His gaze raked over my gun and darted to my barely-touched target. Berlin threw me a piteous smile.

"Can't con an inanimate object, Cairo?"

I choked the urge to roll my eyes and made a cartoonishly sorrowful face instead.

"It's been challenging."

Berlin laughed and, for a moment, I saw a glimpse of him when we were together. There was a softness in how the corners of his eyes would crinkle in amusement. Then he still had his old habit of cocking his head whenever he found something genuinely funny.

"I'll let you continue to challenge yourself, then."

He pulled up his assault rifle and levelled the barrel at the target again. God forbid that he offers to help a con who's never fired anything fancier than a revolver in her entire life.

It was either this or I'd fall even further behind the rest of them. As much as I despise exerting myself, I don't want to be a begrudged afterthought while we lie scattered on the mint's cold tile floor in a pool of our own blood. This was a bridge I'd have to cross sooner or later; there wasn't any getting around it.

For the first time in more than a decade, I reached out for Berlin.


End file.
